As the Marquis shifted his gaze to the arena, a figure stepped onto the stage with a quiet but undeniable presence. A young girl, slender and poised, made her way into the ring. Her dark hair was tied into a neat bun, and her blue-golden robe fluttered with her movement, the emblem of the Cloud Heavens Sect glinting on her shoulder. The crowd quieted slightly, sensing something different about her, a calm amidst the storm of the ongoing battles.
The Marquis observed her closely, his expression thoughtful, a faint smile tracing his lips. “The ‘Silent Thunder,’ was it?” he mused aloud. “Lira Vaelan, if I’m not mistaken.”
Elder Xue’s gaze sharpened, the hint of pride evident as she nodded. “Yes, Marquis. Lira Vaelan is one of our recent rising stars. Her talents have distinguished her quickly among her peers.”
The Marquis’s gaze lingered on Lira, his expression revealing little beyond a faint, thoughtful smile. The girl carried herself with calm poise, though he knew the whispers and rumors that trailed behind her like shadows.
‘Interesting,’
he mused silently, his fingers tapping against the side of his glass.
‘The Cloud Heavens Sect continues to turn out talents, but their standards are more flexible than they might care to admit.’
He glanced sideways at Elder Xue, noting the pride in her eyes as she watched her disciple take her stance in the arena. Despite the stringent image the sect projected, he was well aware that Cloud Heavens’ internal culture allowed certain… liberties among its disciples, a freedom often masked by their rigorous training and public image.
Still, he chose to speak neutrally, letting his words carry a subtle undertone. “A rising star in both skill and, it seems, intrigue. Lira Vaelan has gathered much attention beyond the arena,” he remarked his tone light but with a hint of suggestion.
Elder Xue met his gaze, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “Her talent speaks for itself, Marquis,” she replied, her voice steady but slightly cooler. “She has earned her place here through merit alone, despite what others might imply.”
Marquis Ventor inclined his head in polite acknowledgment, shifting his attention back to the arena. “Indeed. It will be fascinating to see her approach—a balance of technique and composure if I’m not mistaken?”
Elder Kael’s chuckle was low, yet it sliced through the air with deliberate disdain. “Composure, you say… quite ironic, isn’t it, given that some in her sect can’t control even the simplest of desires,” he remarked, his tone thick with derision. His gaze flicked toward Elder Xue, though it lingered on the arena below, where Lira had taken her stance.
“People like her,” he continued, his voice measured yet biting, “often let their impulses blind them to reality. They’re so easily led by… carnal whims. And the consequences, well, they’re as predictable as they are severe.”
Elder Xue’s eyes narrowed further, her fingers still tapping lightly on the armrest. “Those who indulge in slander often speak from ignorance, Elder Kael,” she replied, her voice cold but restrained. “Lira’s skills and dedication are a testament to her worth, whether or not others have the depth to recognize it.”
Marquis Ventor observed the exchange, his gaze moving between the two elders with veiled amusement. He sensed the unyielding tension between the sects, brought now to a sharper point by the bitterness Kael held toward Lira.
“Yes, technique and discipline,” the Marquis commented, his voice smooth, aiming to ease the biting silence that followed. “Every fighter has their path. But paths, as we all know, can be… winding.” His words carried a tone of neutrality, though he couldn’t help but study Lira more closely, watching as she moved with unwavering calm despite the weight of their words.
Kael’s lips twisted into a bitter smile, clearly unimpressed by the Marquis’s attempt at subtlety. “Winding indeed,” he murmured, his eyes hard. “Let’s just hope her path doesn’t end in more disgrace for those she represents.”
Elder Xue stiffened but remained silent, her gaze fixed on the arena. At that moment, Marquis Ventor felt the pressure shift back to Lira.
In the arena, Lira stepped forward, her gaze settling on her opponent with a calm appraisal. Across from her stood a young man, perhaps a year or two her senior, his stance tense, his expression determined but betraying a hint of apprehension. He wore no sect’s colors, no sigil or mark that would denote any allegiance. To the crowd, he might look brave, even bold, for facing a disciple of the Cloud Heavens Sect. But to Lira, his energy betrayed his limitations.
‘Just a peak 2-star,’
she thought, her assessment quick and efficient.
‘This should end swiftly. There’s no need to waste time on a pathetic bastard like him.’
Her hand moved to the hilt of her blade, fingers curling around it with practiced ease. The weapon slid free from its sheath with barely a sound, its polished steel gleaming as it caught the light. She held it low and steady, her stance balanced, her gaze unwavering.
Her opponent shifted uneasily, gripping his weapon—a worn, practical blade—with both hands. He was clearly here to prove himself, to earn recognition but sadly he met the wrong opponent.
Lira’s lip curled almost imperceptibly as she regarded the young man before her. His stance was all bravado, his posture rigid with forced confidence. But his eyes gave him away—there was no real strength behind them, no steel in his gaze, only a shaky determination masking his fear.
‘Pathetic,’
she thought with a hint of disdain.
‘Just go and die in some war, like the rest of the fodder. Why stand here, shivering like a weakling before me?’
Her grip tightened on her blade as the urge to strike rose within her. She could end this now, slice through his defenses in a single motion. But that wouldn’t do. She had to restrain herself, to hold back and play the role her mother had so insistently drilled into her. After all, Lira Vaelan, daughter of a noble family and a disciple of the Cloud Heavens Sect, had appearances to maintain.
Especially after the mistake that she made.
If she did not make such a mistake….if she was not caught….
Well, it was too late now.
She took a steadying breath, forcing her thoughts to calm. Her mind drifted back to the previous night—a memory that brought ease over her, quieting the restless anger that simmered beneath the surface. She had spent the late night hours in a certain place thanks to her Junior Sisters, indulging in the kind of “quality” time that soothed her spirit. The night had been a welcome escape, an oasis where she could let go of her public mask and her duty-bound composure.
But now, here she was, back under the crowd’s scrutiny. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind.
Virtue, poise, control.
She had been warned to uphold a dignified image, one befitting her lineage and her sect. Anything less would be disgraceful.
Lira exhaled, her face smoothing into a mask of serenity, her gaze softening ever so slightly as she approached her opponent. She made a show of adjusting her grip on her sword, slowing her stance, allowing the tension to build. To the audience, it would look as though she were giving him respect, a chance to gather his courage, though in truth, it was only to mask her annoyance.
‘Hold yourself, Lira,’
she reminded herself, letting a faint smile cross her lips—a graceful gesture for the crowd to see, a lie to cover the truth simmering beneath.
With deliberate patience, she took a single step forward, drawing her blade into a defensive stance, the perfect picture of composed humility. Her opponent swallowed, visibly bolstered by her apparent generosity. She almost laughed at his naivete.
‘Play the part,’
she reminded herself, lifting her chin slightly, her voice calm and controlled as she addressed him, though her words were laced with irony only she would understand.
“Come, then,” she said softly. “Show me what brought you here.”
The young man took her cue, gathering himself and charging forward. Lira’s gaze remained fixed, unyielding. She had no patience for men like him, men who sought validation without merit. But as he lunged, she sidestepped gracefully, her blade moving like a whisper, a mere flick of her wrist that sent his sword flying from his hand.
‘Pathetic indeed, not even worthy of licking my boots.’
Her opponent stumbled back, disarmed and helpless. The match was over before it had truly begun, the crowd erupting in awe at her effortless technique. Lira merely inclined her head, offering the fallen warrior a faint, graceful nod—a final gesture of “respect” that concealed the satisfaction simmering within her.
‘Yes,’
she thought as she turned from the ring, leaving her defeated opponent in the dust.
‘A role well-played.’
———————–
I am open to any criticism; you can comment on things that you would like to see in the story.